


Nine Days Too Long

by infiniteGem



Series: Iron Panther Drabbles [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Domestic Avengers, Fluff and Smut, Iron Panther, M/M, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Subspace, because civil war can be resolved damn it, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:05:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6469432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infiniteGem/pseuds/infiniteGem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>T'Challa's been away for nine days and Tony needs to remind him what he's coming home to</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine Days Too Long

**Author's Note:**

> For those darlings who have been wanting Iron Panther smut!
> 
> It's unbeta'd so please excuse any mistakes

 

It’s well-known that Tony Stark has a great ass.

It’s appeared in tabloids, it has countless blogs dedicated to the curve of it, and he’s won Rear Of The Year a few times to get the message:

Tony Stark has a great – no, _phenomenal_ ass.

But he didn’t _really_ appreciate what it could do until he’s standing naked, facing away from the King of Wakanda as the man admires it bare for the first time. And then lavishes attention on it the _whole night_ and even the next morning when Tony wakes up, pleasantly sore down where T’Challa is again lathing his tongue over his aching buttocks, digging his fingers into the bruises he had left and making Tony writhe.

From then on, it’s the best experiment he’s ever run:

Wear pants too tight? T’Challa won’t take his eyes off of him for even a second.

Bend over obnoxiously? 11/10 times Tony will be dragged into an alcove and rimmed with a hand over his mouth until he was delirious.

Shake his ass teasingly? The grip on his ass is unforgiving, holding it possessively and dragging it against him, the promise for what will occur later clear.

That morning, however, Tony had wanted to see what other reactions he could pull from the composed man.

It was a quiet breakfast at the Mansion – they’d relocated when the HQ became too much of a reminder of things past – and Tony was itching to shake things up. He was _bored_ and T’Challa had been away for nine days – _nine days_ – which was horrible, it was mathematically asymmetrical and that was terrible for his brain, and worse for his butt.

Sure, he had Kingly duties to attend to, but as Ambassador to the Avengers, he was needed. In Tony’s bed. And Ass. Right now.

So it was quiet, and Tony was never good with quiet. Though it was a good quiet: Avenger business was better, taking on whatever threats civilian police couldn’t handle – with the rise in Inhumans came anti-Inhuman groups, criminal Inhumans trying to make it big, Inhuman gangs and their wars, and the ATCU couldn’t deal with _everything_ – they’d been called in to handle things quick. Once the truce was called and the world saw how much the Avengers were necessary together, they became a unit once again, to mediate and act against threats officials couldn’t make heads or tails of. With Maria at the helm of the ATCU and Steve and Tony co-running the team, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes were back in business.

But it was so damn boring. T’Challa was gone and that was bad enough, but it seemed trouble decided to take a vacation with him and the Avengers were given a well-earned break. Which, for all the whining he’d done about taking a week off before, was the worst timing. With nothing to occupy his time (read: bed, wall, table, couch, bath), Tony found himself begging Pepper for work – and wasn’t that shocking for her (not that she didn’t take advantage) – or tinkering needlessly with the team’s tech (Bucky still wasn't sure about his arm having a rocket launcher in it) – or letting Rhodey, Nat or Steve literally drag him to team get-togethers because they were assholes who wouldn’t let him sulk.

So when FRIDAY woke him up with a, “King T’Challa has returned, Boss, he is in the kitchen with the rest of the team,” Tony fucking _flew_.

He could hear his team, several conversations at once filling the air, bringing a sense of fullness to the once cavernous mansion. Rhodey, Bucky and Sam were tearing into each other about the Major League, while Steve was explaining the sport to Thor (and no he couldn’t use Mjolnir if they ever played). Clint was telling Wanda about Nathaniel and Scott was explaining the concept of pranking to Vision – that wasn’t going to end well.

And there, the deep rumble of T’Challa’s laugh as Natasha did a spot on imitation of…

How flattering.

“And the Oscar goes to…” Tony crowed as he slid into the kitchen, swiping the golden croissant from Rhodey’s plate – who shouted a hopeless “hey!” –  and throwing it at Natasha, who snatches it from the air and holds it close with a smirk, “Thank you for this honour,” before taking a bite, to Rhodey’s loud dismay. T’Challa was leaning on the counter next to her, his smile a melting warmth down Tony’s spine as he approached, running his eyes approvingly over the bespoke suit he’d arrived in, fresh off the plane from a delegatory meeting and not a single three-piece out of place.

His man was perfect.

“Hey Stark, forget your pants?” Bucky’s teasing voice interrupted Tony’s appreciation of his man and his impeccable style compared to Tony’s too-large shirt, bare legs and wild hair. Rude, but manageable. Tony winked at the brunette, as he reached T’Challa, running a hand over his front and pulling him down by his vest. “Maybe I invented invisible ones,” Tony answered before pressing his lips against T’Challa’s full ones, ignoring the groans of the team, Thor’s appreciative hum and Nat’s wolf-whistle. He could feel T’Challa’s smirk as Tony tried to deepen the kiss, tilting his head to bring them closer, taking his bottom lip between his and sucking, but the king pulled back, running a hand through Tony’s bed-head hair and cupping his cheek with the other.

“Why, hello.”

“Hi,” Tony breathed, and he could feel how shakey his smile was, the joy and excitement at seeing T’Challa again wreaking havoc on his control of his face. He probably looked like an excited puppy, but whatever he looked like was obviously attractive enough for T’Challa to lean in for a few quick pecks along his cheek, “Just brewed a fresh pot of coffee.” He said into Tony’s ear before kissing it and moving so Tony could see the dark ambrosia awaiting him. Tony sighed airily.

“This is why _you’re_ my favourite.”

Rhodey huffed from the island where he and the Sports-Nuts were seated, “I’d like to remind everyone that _I_ made the first batch, but _you_ were too busy sulking in bed.”

“Like a character in a YA novel.” Clint added.

“Which one?” Natasha asked, finishing off the croissant with a satisfying crunch that had Rhodey looking on wistfully.

“All of them,” Scott replied, he paused when he noticed everyone looking at him expectedly, “What? There isn’t much to read in prison, y’know… They’re not half bad.” Clint gave an agreeing nod and Wanda looked on curiously. Tony had seen her curled up with Vision in the library both engrossed in books and god help them all if they discovered those vampire-dystopian-romance series. Tony rolled his eyes, stepping around T’Challa to get to the coffee pot.

“Don’t get jealous Honeybear, you’ll always be my first love.”

Rhodey scoffed, bringing his mug to his mouth, his muttering muffled by it.

Perfect timing.

Tony tiptoed, reaching his hand up, trying to reach a mug on the top shelf, by-passing his favourites on the level in front of his face, his shirt hiking up to his hips and revealing the black lace thong outlining that, reminder, _phenomenal_ ass of his.

“What the _shit!”_ Sam crowed.

“Nice,” Bucky laughed.

“ _Jesus_.” Steve breathed.

“Language,” Natasha reminded.

Tony stifled his grin, biting his lip as Rhodey choked on his drink, spluttering and coughing so prettily, and had a quip ready to fly when a large hand clasped around the mug he’d been reaching for and brought it down, solid body pressing against his back, covering his scantily covered modesty. Tony tilted his head back, making his eyes huge and innocent, “My hero,” he cooed.

T’Challa didn’t let up, slotting his front against Tony, fitting against him like a puzzle piece, his groin cushioned against the curve of Tony’s thong-clad bottom and pouring the coffee into the cup – slowly, the dark liquid sloshing as its poured from a height, the steam blowing into Tony’s face and leaving it wet and hot, the smell rich, powerful and enticing. He moaned.

Tony wanted it. But he wanted T’Challa more.

Tony undulated his hips, rubbing up and down and that was all it took for T’Challa to duck, curl under him and stand, and in a blink, Tony was over his shoulder waving a giddy good-bye to the team.

“Ah,” Thor’s booming voice followed them down the hallway, “I understand now Captain, in this instance, Stark is the catcher T’Challa is the pitcher is he not?” and then right after, “I am no Troll!”

Tony laughed, his plan perfectly executed.

Although everyone had their own room in the mansion, T’Challa shared Tony’s, though it was more like both of theirs now, with the way T’Challa had practically moved his things in, merging into Tony’s space like he’d belonged there all his life. In the days he was away, Tony would wake up and run his hands over the colourful soft throw T’Challa had added to the bed, look at the obsidian panther statues prowling on the mantel, and pull out T’Challa’s night-shirts to sleep in from their closet.

The memories are soft and lonely, but the way T’Challa charges into their room, closing the door behind them and locking it, before throwing Tony down on the couch, Tony is ready to make new hot and spicy ones to savour the next time his lover leaves.

“You are such as ass man,” Tony laughs as he stretches out, his legs hanging over the arm of the couch, shirt hiked up again, his cock straining and rubbing against the fantastic lace as T’Challa stood over him, lips parted and breath coming heavy.

“Wrong. I am an ass _kin_ _g_. Of _this_ ass in particular.”

He reached for him and Tony moved up for a kiss when, with a yelp, he’s turned around and pulled back so that he was belly down on the couch with his groin pressed against the arm, the pressure on his cock was amazing and his backside easily accessible to T’Challa’s eyes, his hands, and level with his groin.

“For my eyes only,” he rumbled, running his hand over the generous flesh of Tony’s ass, thumb tracing the lace of the thong around them as his fingers squeezed. His thumb followed the line of the thong between the cheeks and rubbing the fabric against his hole. Tony gasped, the scratchy feeling of the lace against his opening – and against his cock – alighting his nerves and setting off delicious sparks behind his eyes.

He followed the same path with his nose, nipping at his ass, and Tony could feel the burn of the blush on his face, T’Challa was so intimate when they did this, making the raunchiest thing more personal.

That public display before didn’t (or well, technically did) help.

T’Challa was a guarded man, who shared only when he was comfortable or felt it was necessary, both alike and unlike Tony, who broadcasted everything to protect his privacy.

T’Challa was everything he _could_ have been, that integrity, authority, strength and trustworthiness he radiated – Tony wanted that, he craved that and he felt unworthy of that attention when he did things like this. Pressing his nose against Tony’s perineum, making Tony arch off the couch and into him, searching for that perfect spot to put pressure on, as T’Challa breathed in deep at his sex, and _fuck_ if that wasn’t so damn hot. Holding his ass still, the king licked back up, along the fabric, pulling at the end of it with his teeth, making it stretch over his straining cock and making Tony gasp wetly.

“T’Challa, _please_.”

The sound of skin hitting skin and the sting of impact on his ass cheek threw Tony out of the hazy lust and brought him back into focus, he yelped as T’Challa ground his palm into the burning print he’d left. “ _My_ eyes _only_ , Tony.” He growled, leaning in close to Tony’s ear, stretching out over him, heavy and solid and grounding as he rubbed his covered cock against Tony’s bare and burning ass and buried his face into Tony’s neck, nose tucked beneath his ear and teeth pressing into his neck, sucking at the skin.

Despite the weight pressing against him, Tony squirmed, doing his best to rub against T’Challa’s erection, desperate for anything, _everything_ he could give him: his cock in his mouth, in his ass, his fingers, his hand, anything. He would give this man who had everything his everything and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Yours, I’m yours, T’Challa just please, it’s been too long, fuck, _please_.”

“Asking so nicely, such a good kitten, so eager,” T’Challa purred, running his teeth over Tony’s ear making him shiver, before reaching under his shirt, running his hand over his torso and pulling the offending fabric over Tony’s head and throwing it away from them. Tony lay his head flat on one side to look up at his lover as the he took in his bare back – bare except for the thong. He ran a finger down the line of Tony’s back, following his spine with the nail, curling it under the top of the lace. “I like this, kitten, I like it a _lot_.”

“Enough to fuck me in it?” Tony asked, pushing up on to his forearms and arched his ass into the air, and T’Challa made an appreciative noise, spanking the same cheek again, making Tony groan into the cushions of the couch as he ground his face into it. T’Challa didn’t stop there, squeezing the flesh, groaning at the feel of it, both of them loving how it fit into his palms. He delivered another blow and the burn was _good_ , lighting up Tony’s nerves, electrifying them. Then a soft tickling of hair skirted across the reddening skin and Tony looked over his shoulder to see T’Challa burying his face against his ass, rubbing his beard into his hand print, peppering kisses along it and lathing it with his tongue.

He looked up and locked eyes with Tony, “Enough to ruin you in it,” T’Challa replied and grinned, smile so sharp that it had Tony’s stomach doing flips. He wanted those canines to leave marks on his skin. Shit. He didn’t even think:

“Bite me.”

He did.

Tony cried out as he bit down on his sore skin, pain-pleasure sparking off and muddling his mind. He moved on to the other, mark-less cheek, bit down and _sucked_. T’Challa pulled away and breathed, running a hand over his bite mark, admiring it, then choosing another spot, did it again. Once. Twice, a third time and Tony was writhing, pushing into and pulling away from T’Challa’s mouth at the same time.

“Fuck, T’Challa come _on_.”

The king hummed, still pre-occupied with fondling his butt and Tony wanted _action_. “You _asked_ for this, my impatient kitten. This is _punishment_.” He licked across the line where his ass met this thigh and Tony whined, the sensation so close to where he wanted it.

“Nine days abstinence wasn’t enough punishment?” Tony grumbled.

T’Challa paused, literally perking up, and Tony could imagine how hilarious the action would look in the Panther suit, with its little feline ears. “You did not touch yourself for nine days?” He asked, tone curious but satisfied and Tony felt something in his chest curl happily at pleasing T’Challa.

“Yes. Nine days. Nine. Ugliest number in existence.”

“I do not agree, kitten.”

Suddenly, his ass cheeks were held apart and T’Challa’s tongue was circling his hole. Tony wailed, finally, finally having that tongue right where he wanted, _needed_ it. He licked into Tony with a groan, alternating between pressing and pushing against his rim and quick flicks of his tongue. Then he pulled away and just as Tony was about to snap at the King of Wakanda for being a fucking tease, T’Challa pressed against his hole with the lace of the thong, rubbing it into his skin, the slickness of his saliva only intensifying the friction of the fabric, the patterns of lace catching on his puckered entrance and Tony stuttered and swore.

“Nine is a _fascinating_ number. It is the third square number and an exponential factorial.”

Oh this couldn’t be happening, Tony wanted to cry, as T’Challa spoke in an unaffected, instructing tone as he rubbed Tony into mindlessness while _talking about math_.

“Nine... is a logarithmic measure... of probability... of an event,” he said in between kisses down Tony’s back, still stroking the lace insistently into and around his hole, nipping down the curve of his ass, T’Challa breathed in deeply, “like how there is a 99% chance I will be eating your ass out.”

He pulled against the lace, stretching it over his cock again and plunged his tongue into Tony, so wet and hot and fantastic, that Tony’s body acted on its own, grinding back into T’Challa’s face, trying to take him in as much as he could. The noises were filthy, driving Tony to the edge as much as the tongue dipping in and out of his ass. The licks became lazier and less frequent and T’Challa pulled out again.

“There are nine planets in our solar system,” he murmured before his hand landed on Tony’s ass again and Tony’s cry almost drowned out the sound of the cap of lube being opened before T’Challa’s tongue speared back into his hole.

“Nine Realms,” Plunge.

“Nine Heegner numbers,” Dip.

“The Nine Muses, who, believe me kitten, _inspired_ the creation of this ass.” Spank.

“And Nine days I did not touch myself either, in the hopes of worshipping this for all its worth.”

Fingers generously slicked, T’Challa worked them into Tony, pressing two in slowly and curling at intervals to draw out his gasps and whimpers. Tony, sensitised already, let himself go to the feeling of T’Challa’s digits, unable to hold back a grateful sob when he adds another, letting him finger-fuck him to the edges of his mind, gripping the couch with quivering muscles, mouth shamelessly open while he sighed and whimpered as his walls clenched around T’Challa’s fingers, the squelching of the lube the only other noise in the room.

T’Challa nuzzles the back of Tony’s thighs. "You're so tight, kitten. So perfect for me." He murmurs into the skin before adding his tongue into the fray, lapping across the hole he was fucking his fingers into.

"Fuck!" Tony sobbed as T’Challa played with his rim, driving his body to the point of shaking, desperate to come.

But T’Challa wasn’t done with him, rubbing gently as he removed his fingers and then… did nothing.

Tony could feel his hole gaping, open, aching to be filled and clenching at nothing, his body searching for that delicious friction to no avail. Then cold air blew against the sensitive skin, and his hole spasmed against the feeling. Tony cried out, driven to rutting against the arm, because he was _so so fucking close_ and he was going to come, out of his mind, ass in the air, rubbing his cock against a couch while a king, the king, _his_ king watched.

Then, the couch wasn’t there, he was in T’Challa’s arms, being carried, his head lolled onto T’Challa’s chest as his body shook and his hips still thrusting to no avail.

They were on the bed, Tony on top of T’Challa as the king ravaged his mouth and Tony let him, tasting himself on his tongue, rubbing his lace-covered cock against the bulge in T’Challa’s pressed suit pants, the delicious friction making them both moan. Tony thrust mindlessly, desperate for the friction and heat, panting into T’Challa’s mouth, feeling the pressure build up quickly, his balls tight and ready to come, just a few more-

A hand gripped tight around the base of his cock and Tony swore, looking up angrily to see T’Challa smirking at him, his brow raised. Tony glared, the effect muted by the choked moan that left his lips when T'Challa squeezed him base to tip, twisting his grip at the end.

“Turn around,” the command in his voice sent a curl of heat through Tony’s body and he whimpered but obeyed, hoping that T'Challa wouldn't leave him on this edge any longer. “Good kitten,” T’Challa praised, as Tony straddled his chest, bringing his ass to T’Challa’s face again, the heat only growing with the praise.

“Good?” he slurred, mind muddled with the build-up of pleasure.

“So good,” T’Challa assured and Tony collapsed against him, face at his groin and nuzzling against his lover's bulge, remembering the taste of his cock and the times he drove T'Challa wild for him simply with his mouth. His own dick twitched at the memory and he shook his ass, impatient.

T'Challa hissed his appreciation, hands immediately coming up to grab the globes of his ass. Tony wailed as T’Challa licked into his hole, prodding and checking, lubing him again, “I’ve been dreaming of this Tony, every night, every morning you weren’t there. Wondering how tight you’ve gotten without me, how you’d be touching yourself, but you didn’t, did you? Such a _good_ kitten, the _best_.”

He pushed Tony forward gently, bringing his ass above T’Challa’s bulge. He undid his pants and his cock was wet, pre-cum glistening on the head and Tony’s mouth went dry at the sight of how he affected him. T’Challa lubed himself up, not breaking eye-contact with Tony as he did, biting his lip, brows drawn together. His expression was as wrecked as Tony felt, while the rest of his body was still impeccably dressed, cock jutting out from formal pants that hugged his powerful thighs.

When he guided Tony’s ass down by his hip, his other hand wrapped around his member, Tony lowered his upper body flat to the bed between T’Challa’s thighs, Tony’s legs on either side of his hips and he could just imagine the picture he presented:

Ass painted red with bites, hand prints and hickies, spreckled across his back, body bowed before him as T’Challa’s cock entered him slowly, easily with how generously he’d been prepared.

Hips slotted together, they both breathed heavily, Tony’s body shaking with the delicious feeling of being filled again, it was perfect it was nine days too long a wait but worth it, so worth it, he never wanted T’Challa to leave, wanted to keep him here, in him, completing him, filling him up, loving him with a focussed attention he didn’t deserve.

“My kitten, so beautiful and good,” T’Challa groaned, rubbing his hands over Tony’s quivering ass and body where he could reach. “Use me, go on, use me for your pleasure; let me see you come.”

Tony didn’t hesitate, letting his hindbrain take control, falling into mindless movement of his hips, up and down, fucking onto T’Challa’s cock, shamelessly moaning and crying out into the bed as he followed that beautiful burning sensation.

T’Challa was no better, usually so restrained, calm, his presence speaking enough for him, quieting voices too loud, until he’d lay into people with the best chosen words – words that built or brought down in many languages.

Now he was endless iterations of compliments, grunting at how gorgeous and how perfect Tony was (he wasn’t, he wasn’t, but if _he_ said so then maybe), hands alternating between holding Tony's hips and his ass, unable to take his eyes off how it bounced and unable to keep from delivering another light spank and a rub.

When Tony’s hips stuttered, finally finding that angle, hitting his prostate and setting off shivers through his body, T’Challa gripped the voluptuous flesh and ground it down against him, stimulating that spot more, raising his ass and slamming it back down for him, thrusting up at the same time.

Tony was uttering wordless cries and it didn’t take long for his orgasm to claim him mind and body, arching intensely and walls clenching around T’Challa’s cock, milking him for all his worth and T’Challa fucked him through it, grunting as he came deep inside, holding Tony flat to him, coating Tony’s walls with his come.

Though his body was shuddering with aftershocks of his peak, Tony’s face was blissed out, eyes drooping and so utterly beautiful and T’Challa didn’t hesitate pulling him up and into his arms, holding him tight through his shakes, burying his nose into his tousled hair. Tongue heavy and mind muddling through the after-haze of pleasure, Tony mumbled something unintelligible against T’Challa’s collarbone, sighing contently.

It damn near wet the king’s eyes, intense fondness and love slamming into him as Tony drifted in his arms, he wanted to hold him there forever, in that state, never let him go, worship him with his body with all the little he had to offer someone who built themselves up again and again, who acted like they needed nothing and no-one. This man who hid himself behind power, laughter and genius, who challenged anything and anyone and himself most, to the point of exhaustion.

He wanted to be there always, distract him with debates to see that whip-smart tongue in action as his hands moved ahead of his brain to build, tease him and make him look at him in that particular open way Tony does when he’s comfortable, let him use him, lean on him, subtly, even when Tony didn’t realise he needed it. He wanted everything and anything and he wanted Tony with a magnitude incalculable, with an intensity that thundered through him, through his heart that pound so hard that T’Challa worried for a moment that it would disturb Tony where he lay, pressed against his chest.

“Bast take me, I love you,” he whispered, massaging Tony’s shoulders and back, peeling the thong away and cupping his worn ass and just holding his lover. He’d have to tear away from him to clean them up very soon.

But for now, T’Challa tucked Tony against him, his nine days of needless fretting behind him, he just breathed and basked in the sated glow of their room.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Little tid-bit, Tony actually calls T'Challa 'kitten' in EMH. I hc'd it before I realised it but when I watched it back for inspiration for Part 3 I screeched.
> 
> Find me here:
> 
> @infinityygem


End file.
